chasing the starlight
by Liquid Skin Terror
Summary: The stars sang to Tony once, of escape and dreams and adventure. Pre-Tony/Clint.


The stars sang to him once, of escape and dreams and adventure. As a child, he'd designed ships, planned travels, struggled against gravity and friction and assorted considerations, all the while certain that he would fly through space one day. Aware of countless galaxies, amazing worlds to be discovered, right there above his head and in every direction around his tiny pebble of a planet, and if he could just _reach_ a little further–

Well. He hadn't been wrong.

(Reflecting back on it, he wishes he could say that nothing had prepared him for the emptiness and the vastness, but what had got to him, _really_ got to him, was at the same time the impossible fullness of everything stretching forever in all directions; no wonder the Universe is expanding when it's so filled to the brim with– with planets and stars and life and endless expanses of dust and civilizations and wars and whatever, _everything_, what the hell even _isn't_ possible anymore.

His mind may have burned a little.)

So that had been one neat little mark on his Childhood Dreams checklist (not an actual thing, because apparently there is yet another level of Fucking Depressing that Tony still has to sink to).

That should have been the end of it, really: you've been to another galaxy and almost died for it, hope you've enjoyed your trip and fuck off on your merry way! Nevermind the shaking or the anxiety attacks or the crippling fear where there should have been only wonder, a sense of adventure and impatience to go _back_. Too bad about the nightmares and the dimmed future and the muted threats that his past lullabies have become. But hey, congrats on saving the world or something!

The rest of the Avengers have been pretty good about it, as in they've been walking on painfully obvious and noisy eggshells around Tony. Steve does the soulful, supportive gaze and the silent and yet somehow embarrassingly loud _we're here for you, pal_ shoulder pat. Bruce does the quiet elbow bump and soft smiles late at night in the lab, which actually feels nice, and the Hulk does… well, sort of the same, which although very much appreciated, isn't quite as nice and certainly not as comforting. Probably negative levels of comforting. Natasha does… whatever the fuck that poker face is supposed to mean– and took to beating him up in workout sessions he doesn't dare to skip in fear of (probably? He wouldn't put it past her) losing a number of precious body parts in his sleep. There's also the frowning. And the booze, which, okay. Tony can get behind. Common language and all that. Thor is partisan of random nights out he labels as "CELEBRATIONS!" which translates to more booze and less potentially murderous staring contests, but also more strangers in closed space. Tony is still on the fence about that.

And then there's Clint, who after the battle of New York had just seemed intent on ignoring the whole Thing With Tony, because he is just that kind of special asshole-but-not-really friend you're sometimes grateful to have around when the entire world is driving you crazy with solicitude and you just want to shoot stuff without having to go through a psych eval first.

Tony is probably gonna have to revise his judgment on that one though. He is currently staring at his perfectly good sunglasses (well, ex-perfectly, ex-good now) crushed in Clint's fist.

"Man, these were not cheap. You're lucky I hadn't gotten to adding all the gadgets yet."

Clint looks ready to strangle him. Tony notices his fist closing a little tighter over the broken glasses. Wow, he hadn't thought that was possible! That bow training seriously gave him mad finger strength. Or is there some kind of Fingers Of Steel special training he does on the side? Tony files that away for later consideration and struggles to keep his attention on Clint's enraged face and not on his admittedly distracting hands.

"Are you actually living in the real world? Are you an actual _person_?"

Well, that seems a little harsh for a stupid pair of sunglasses.

"What kind of complete waste of space wears sunglasses at night _'because I don't want to see the FUCKING STARS'?!"_ Clint gestures wildly above their heads, and… yeah, that is probably supposed to be an imitation of Iron Man crying at the sky. Tony is both impressed with his charades skills and beginning to fear an aneurism. "How melodramatic can you get before you implode from the pressure of your own bullshit?"

"Wow, I just bared my soul to you, but thanks for relaying it to the rest of the city, that was absolutely the point."

"Fuck you, Stark. That does not count as soul-baring. That was just ridiculous manchild whining. What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?"

Tony feels his cheeks grow hot with anger at that, but before he can even open his mouth to retort, Clint snorts. "Don't even start. I mean what the fuck is so hard about asking for fucking help instead of wallowing in your self-secreted 100% unaltered big baby angst juice."

"Now there's a pleasant image."

"When we're right _here_, trying like idiots to get you to open the fuck up."

That had less bite, more sting, like Clint is disappointed instead of angry, and it makes Tony feel small and guilty and _that_ is infuriating for reasons he chooses not to dwell on.

"What if I don't need, or better yet, _want_ to–"

Thankfully Clint cuts him short before he can start to sound like a petulant child even to his own ears. "Oh get over yourself already. D'you think we don't know you by now? Or what's going on in your stupid genius head?"

And that, well, that shuts Tony right up. Because the answer is not exactly _no_.

The answer is, Bruce understands. It shows in his pained smiles and his unwavering silence, the way he knows in advance not to start a battle he can't win, against the smallness and the wild expanses of everything shifting around you like the Universe is a bigger thing than your mind could ever possibly have imagined, and all of it realized your existence at the same time, and there isn't a speck of dust that's happy about it. And it shows in his unshakeable presence in spite of it all, like a show of everything not being over just because it's terrifying.

The answer is, Steve knows. It's something he's lived through, more or less, this sudden realization that the world is never going to be the same. And every glance and every touch is proof that they're still part of the same reality. There are threads pulling them up and together, linking them, suffocating them sometimes, stringing them along an unchosen path, shaping them and cutting into their flesh; anchoring them come hell or high water.

The answer is, Nat sees. Her unmoving face might be that of a stone statue, some immortal goddess here since the beginning of time, witness to all of man's foolish errands, privy to the pain and the glory, to the countless falls. She recognizes the patterns in the stumbles, knows the process of the climb. She is there to give a push, provide a momentary respite, all the while knowing nothing can or has to be said, because everything that happens to them is an inevitability, shaped by every choice they made and every chance they took and every decision they just have to fucking live with.

The answer is, Thor holds. There is no distance in his foreign, alien approach, as if light-years are nothing more than a few steps and dimensions are neighboring cities. There is only bold acceptance, frank affection, a warrior's understanding and a mender's touch. It's a promise, all of it, a gift freely given whether anyone's ready for it or not. An oath of friendship in the face of irreconcilable difference, rats in a lion's den, and the assertion that somewhere, out there in the great void, you are known, and cherished, and might even have a place.

And yet the answer is still not yes, because Tony can't get a read on Clint. He can't break down their not-friendship to its most elemental components, he can't take in the banter, the companionably silent afternoons cleaning weapons in the armory, the name-calling, the unrestrained punches and the childish pranks, the swift fingers and crushed bones, a bloody cheek from a broken bowstring, the competition, the silent treatment and the pouting, the few signs they use to insult each other in serious meetings, video game nights and broken glasses, and now the anger, he can't take all the parameters into account and sort out a satisfying model to explain how it all works together. The answer always comes out like mumbled strings of words, a ruined dream at the edge of your consciousness as you wake up. You know what you want it to be, but it doesn't mean anything if it doesn't have a life of its own.

(For quite some time now, Tony has known what he wants it to be. He has let the thought go each time, slip past his fingers and ripple to nothing in the empty space between them. But now he factors in the hunted look in Clint's eyes, like he's let on too much, and the determined set of his jaw, and the fingers clenched over Tony's broken glasses, and the fond and exasperated expression he's trying to hide. And Tony tries to shift ever so slightly his own parameters, what he's willing to let show and what he's willing to risk, and he reaches to grab that answer _back_, and) his hand finds Clint's.

And all the thoughts he let go are shining like stars between them.

Clint is saying something, but Tony can't hear him over the singing.


End file.
